


Will It Matter, After I'm Gone?

by ScarletThread



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Disenchanted, Established Relationship, Hospital, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pain, Song fic, Songfic, hospital fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletThread/pseuds/ScarletThread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faced with death, Sherlock and John wonder if their love was worth anything at all, in the end.</p><p>
  <strong>Teaser:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>His arms wrapped around his torturous wounds, his head bowed, Sherlock let the tears come. He let himself feel. And he cursed himself. He cursed himself for believing, all those years ago, that he could make this work. He cursed himself for letting John leave. For never showing him how much he truly did care about him. For being left behind, being the one who had so many things to say but no one to say them to.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As we ran from the cops, we laughed so hard it would sting

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorite ways to get ideas for fics is to look at song lyrics. One night, I wanted to write, so I just put my iPod on shuffle, and the very first song that popped up was Disenchanted by My Chemical Romance. Since that song already invokes images and emotions in my head, I went with it, and wrote this during the following week or so. Each chapter title is a line from the song that inspired that portion of the story.

"Sherlock, this is definitely illegal."  
"That's never stopped us before."

And indeed, this was not the most illegal thing they had ever done. They were round the back of an art museum, and Sherlock was picking the lock of a back door. Their only intention was to examine a painting away from the eyes of tourists and security guards. It was just that the painting in question happened to be located in a locked storage cupboard in the basement of the museum. Still, it would be a quick operation, and hardly a sinister crime, so John simply felt a little uneasy, and not tormented with guilt as he sometimes did during Sherlock's schemes.

"Ah." With that, the door was open. The pair slipped inside and headed for the correct wing. John stayed vigilant, but it looked like the place was deserted. It was well past closing time. Sherlock ducked through a doorway, and John followed him, then down some steps. The basement was poorly lit, but Sherlock swerved assuredly around boxes and shelves of artwork to find the one he needed. John loitered about, trying to appear helpful when he really had nothing to do. He picked up a painting and looked it over dully. He was just about to remark cheerily that the disorganized piles reminded him of how the living room looked when Sherlock was in the middle of a case, when a noise from the floor above made them both jump. They looked at each other. It had sounded like one of the heavy metal doors. Barely breathing, they strained their ears and heard footsteps above them.

"Night guard," Sherlock said in a hushed whisper. He stayed silent for a second, listening. "He's in the other hallway," he concluded, and scooped up the plastic tube that held the painting they were looking for. "Come on." He made for the stairs.

"Sherlock," John whispered, setting down his painting and taking a few steps. " _Sherlock._ " He hurried toward the stairs. "We look like thieves. Put the painting back..." But John was already losing him, as Sherlock trotted up the last few stairs and entered the hallway. He took a swift look around, then strode determinedly down to the right.

John let out an exasperated sigh and followed.

He tried to call the detective's name again, but his apprehension for being caught by the night guard kept him from making much noise. Instead, he resigned himself to trust Sherlock's movements as he led them out of the museum. When they had reached a door and were in the open, still night air, John allowed himself to relax—too soon.

"Oi!" They both turned and saw a gaggle of guards in the parking lot, evidently having just arrived for their shift. And for John and Sherlock, two strangers having just emerged from a closed museum with a tubed-up painting, it didn't look too good.

"Run," Sherlock hissed, before doing so. John tried not to think about how many times he had heard that since he became Sherlock's friend, and instead focused on keeping up. He was not quite so fit as his accomplice, and, despite his best efforts, began falling behind.

"Here." Sherlock stretched out his arm and offered him his free hand. John took it, and was transported back that night so long ago, another time when they were running from cops. How different things had been back then, yet still familiar.

He glanced behind, as they turned into another alleyway, to see if the guards were gaining on them. The pair seemed to have lost them. They slowed their pace together.

"Do these sorts of things _ever_ go smoothly?" John said, as they reached a slight jog, still hand in hand.

Sherlock smiled. "No," he admitted frankly. John grinned at him. And before he knew it, he was laughing.

"This is crazy, Sherlock," he chuckled. "Absolutely bloody crazy."

Sherlock stopped and pulled John in closer by his hand. "And you wouldn't have it any other way." He said it as a fact, but behind his smirk there was a lingering plea in his eyes.

John looked right in those eyes, seas of complex questions and answers. "Not any other way." The bright eyes closed as he leaned up and kissed the man on the lips. It was dark and comforting, but they only remained for a moment; they had to get a move on to assure their safety.

"Come on," Sherlock said, slipping out of John's hand and turning a corner.

"Wait—Sherlock," John hurried around the corner, but by then the swift detective had gone out of sight.

"Damn it," John panted, and trotted uncertainly down the street, his head cocked as he searched for signs of the detective's whereabouts. He didn't have to listen hard, however. After just a moment, there were sounds of a fight echoing off the abandoned city walls. Incomprehensible shouts and muffled thuds. John's pace quickened. He heard plastic hit concrete, then something much heavier, like...a body. Then—

"John." The call was strained and unstable. " _John._ " It sounded like he was trying to shout but couldn't.

"Sherlock!" John called back loudly, starting to run. He heard some muted cursing, then pounding footsteps that faded into the night. "Sherlock?" He turned a corner. "Sher..."

He had found him. The bright white plastic tube was on the ground, rolling slowly. It listed into a slick puddle of blood, but John didn't even glance at it. He was more focused on where the blood was coming from.

" _Sherlock_ ," he gasped, rushing to kneel down in front of the man. He was on his side on the pavement, dark blood seeping through his shirt and reflecting the moonlight. "Oh god, oh god..."

He carefully turned the man over a bit to inspect his wounds. There were three bloodstained gashes through his shirt. He reached out, but didn't touch them, not wanting to cause more pain.

"John..." Sherlock mumbled, then coughed wretchedly.

"Shh, shh," John said, cradling Sherlock's head. "I'm here. Just hold on. Do that for me, okay?" he added, pretending his voice didn't crack. "Hold on." He pulled out his mobile and called, as calmly as he could, for an ambulance. Sherlock reached for his free hand, and held on.


	2. A lifelong wait for a hospital stay

"John..."  
"I'm here."

Sherlock's eyes flickered open and squinted slightly against the harsh fluorescent light.

"Oh." John hurried to turn them off, allowing the ample sunlight to shine through the window. "Better?"

"John," Sherlock said again. "What...?" But the memory returned with the sharp pain in his abdomen. His body tightened, and he sucked in a breath. This was unlike anything he'd felt before. It felt like... It felt like he was dying.

"Here," John said hurriedly. "You've got a morphine button." He passed the little plastic box to Sherlock, who tapped it and leaned back to wait for the pain to subside. It was quite interesting, though. He'd never been dying before. Not like this, anyway.

"You remember what happened?"

Sherlock shook his head. Pain and drugs had muddled up his mind, he couldn't recall anything right now.

"A group of thieves attacked you," John explained. "Real thieves, not a doctor and a detective trying to solve a case," he added with a small smile. Sherlock smiled back, through the pain. "Anyway, they were planning on breaking into the museum that night, so when they saw you with the painting, they decided to get a head start on it. They said you resisted, so they...well, obviously, they stabbed you. Then they heard me, realized you weren't alone, and ran off."

"'They said'?" Sherlock repeated.

"Oh. Yeah. The guards that were chasing us caught them right away. They're in custody. And Lestrade got hold of the painting, so that case is solved as well."

Sherlock nodded. "Well, that's good. I can hardly do any investigating from here, can I?" He looked at John to see him smile, but instead noticed his damp, red and tired eyes. "Are you all right?"

John took a shuddery breath. "Am I all right," he repeated in a hushed voice. "No." He blinked back tears. "My husband's in the hospital after being _stabbed_ , of course I'm not..." His voice faded into weak, timid sobs. Sherlock watched him, unsure of how to comfort him. Then John sniffed and said, "Husband. Guess it's a good thing I made you marry me, eh? I told you that with us always running after criminals, one of us was bound to end up in the hospital. And I'd want to be able to visit you." He sniffled again, and Sherlock reached out and put his hand over John's.

"You didn't _make_ me marry you," he said gently. John smiled; a small, watery smile, it was true, but there was gratitude in his eyes. Along with a fair amount of worry. Sherlock squeezed his hand. Then his abdomen convulsed again, and he banked forward and winced from the pain. As he clicked his morphine administrator again, he didn't see John's eyes water.

"Dr. Watson?" called a mild voice. Sherlock's doctor, a sympathetic cocoa-skinned woman named Dr. Crowe, was standing in the doorway. "Could I speak with you for a minute?"

John squeezed Sherlock's hand once more, then stood and stepped into the hallway.

"What is it?" he asked. Dr. Crowe bit her lip and glanced up at him. John, a doctor himself, didn't like that look. "What is it?" he asked again, more adamantly.

Dr. Crowe took a breath. "We've gotten the test results back," she began. "His right kidney and liver have been severely damaged."

John shifted restlessly on his feet. "Can you fix it?" he asked crisply, running his tongue over his lips.

"The damage is to such an extent that it would be ineffective to operate," she answered slowly. "I'm afraid we've done all we can."

"What do you mean, you've done all you can?" John said, his voice rising slightly with emotion. "You haven't done all you can until he's walking beside me again, not sitting in a bloody hospital bed shooting morphine—" He took a deep, shuddery breath. "There must be something else, something else you can do."

"The only thing we can do now is make sure he's comfortable," Dr. Crowe said gently. John stared at her. "I'm sorry," she added, putting her hand on his shoulder. Then she went away down the hallway to another patient.

John stood, frozen, for a second, then turned and leaned against the doorframe, gazing at his husband. _Comfortable. Make sure he's comfortable._ She made it sound like he was a pet hamster, who was to be given extra wood chips and water until he'd breathed his last and could be buried in the backyard. But as John watched him, while he interestedly examined the machinery clicking and beeping beside him, he knew he was so much more important, so much stronger, than that. And he refused to believe that he would be breathing his last in this hospital bed. No, the doctor was wrong. Even when John had been a doctor, he had been wrong a few times. Sherlock was firm, steady, perseverant. He would live.

With that, John stepped into the room. Sherlock looked up. "Ah." He settled back against the pillow. "I'm dying, aren't I?"

John stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"That's what the doctor said, isn't it?" The detective's tone was rather casual, as if he was announcing that he had figured out what he was getting as a Christmas present.

"What? No. No." John walked forward and sat by Sherlock's bed again. "No, you're not dying. You're going to be fine."

Sherlock gave him a look. "John, I've got almost twenty milligrams of morphine in my system and it still hurts. I'm not going to be fine."

"Yes. Yes, you are," John said firmly, clutching the detective's hand. Sherlock gazed at him sadly. John turned away. "You're going to be fine," he said quietly.

"Whatever you say, Doctor," Sherlock murmured. John swung his head around to face him again, but the detective was already drifting off into sleep.

*

"We were thinking about having children."

John jumped. He hadn't realized Sherlock was awake. He stroked his hand, which he had been holding for hours while Sherlock slept. The sun had long since stopped glowing through the window, and now the room was dark and bluish. "Yes," he agreed. Sherlock looked up at the ceiling with an unamused smile. "What?"

"It's too bad," Sherlock said simply.

"Don't talk like that. We can still have kids."

Sherlock's eyes slid down to meet John's. "You're going to have to accept that I'm dying, John."

"No, I'm not, Sherlock. It's not true. You can't just give up like this."

"I'm not giving up, John!" Sherlock said loudly, then collapsed into coughs. "I'm not giving up," he repeated when he'd regained his breath. "I'm being honest. I'm dying. I can tell."

John didn't let himself admit that Sherlock's intuition was most often better than everyone else's. Instead, he said, "You should go back to sleep."

The detective let out a huffy sigh. "John—"

"Shh." John touched Sherlock's shoulder and lightly pushed him back against the pillow. Then he leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. "Rest. Doctor's orders." Sherlock gave him a look again, but obligingly shut his eyes. There was no way he could stay awake with so much morphine in his veins, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Crows are the bearers of bad news in mythological stories.


	3. If I'm so wrong, how can you listen all night long?

"What day is it?"  
"Sunday. It's three o'clock."

Sherlock sighed. "I missed _Poirot_."

John smirked. "I checked the TV schedule. It was one you've already seen anyway, with the Russian countess."

"Ah. The one where Poirot says that marriage is not for him."

John smiled and nodded. "That was you years ago."

Sherlock looked over at him. "Thank goodness you convinced me otherwise." He smiled as John leaned over to kiss him. He kissed back, keeping him there. But a pang in his abdomen made him lurch forward, nearly biting John's lip as his jaw clenched.

John took his hand as he leaned back against his pillow again. This seemed to be their default position now.

Sherlock turned his hand over to fit it into his husband's. He let out a breath and smiled a little. "Well, I'm glad it wasn't an episode I haven't seen. I don't think I'm going to be able to watch the repeat next week."

"Sherlock." John leaned forward, his eyes set. Sherlock watched him, his mouth tight in a sort of resigned way. "Stop it. You're going to live."

"No, I'm not, John," Sherlock said, unusually kind, but firm. "I know I'm not."

John suddenly stood and took a few aimless steps away from the bed, then turned anxiously. "You don't know that," he said, his voice unintentionally loud. "Don't give up now."

"I'm not giving up, John," Sherlock countered, his voice rising to match John's, as best it could. "I was stabbed, John. Although I don't know which ones, I'm pretty sure a few of my organs are beyond repair. I'm in constant pain, as well as spasms every few minutes, and I've been urinating blood for two days. I'm _not_ going to be fine, John." His voice hitched. "Why can't you just accept that?"

John stared at him with tears in his eyes, his breathing unsteady. "Why can't I accept that my husband is dying?" He shook his head. "I'm not going to believe that. Maybe it's because I don't want to believe it, but... Even if _you_ give up, I'm not going to." Sherlock sighed vexedly, and John turned on him.

"You're not always right, you know," he snapped. "Besides, you can't be dying. You're a machine, right?" Sherlock looked like he had just been stabbed again, but John ploughed on. "You just take whatever you need to keep you running. Even if it's from me. Even if you destroy me. Who cares how other people feel, as long as you're still going, right?" Sherlock's eyes were wet, fixed on John's face. "Well, all that time, all those years of _taking_ hasn't done you any good, has it? Because you're beyond repair now. So you're just going to shut down, just give up, and leave me here to deal with it."

He turned away from the bedside and tried to calm himself. Sherlock remained silent. Then,

"That can't be all I am to you." John turned around again and looked at him. "A machine. You wouldn't care this much if you didn't think I cared, too."

"I don't think you _do_ care, Sherlock. You don't care about dying. And I'm pretty sure you don't care about me." Sherlock's lips parted in protest, but a sudden convulsion kept him from speaking. A moment later, John snatched up his jacket and thrust it on. "I'm going to get some air."

Sherlock tried to stay silent, but he couldn't help but point out, "You're leaving me, and _I'm_ the one that doesn't care?" John glanced at him, but strode out of the room all the same.


	4. And if you think that I'm wrong, this never meant nothing to you. So go, go away. Just go, run away.

"Sherlock?"

There was no response. Sherlock was asleep. It was late evening, and the sky was darkening. But as John walked by the light switches, he kept them off. There was no need for them.

He sat in the chair by the bed, not bothering to take off his jacket. He gazed at the man lying in front of him. The frail evening light fell on Sherlock's too-pale face, accenting his cheekbones and tangling in his dark curls. John remembered the first time he had laid his hand across those cheekbones, the first time he had mussed those curls, in dim light much like this. He felt tears well up in his eyes. He didn't want that to be taken away from him.

It wasn't much of a stretch for him to think Sherlock didn't care, he mused. They had never said _I love you_ to each other. Even after years of being a couple, then being married, being ready to have kids, for goodness' sake, they had remained what they always were. Partners. Yes, they kissed, they had sex, they wore rings on their fingers. But something about it had always been somewhat hidden. They stayed together only because there was no reason for them to separate. Now, however, it seemed there was.

John kept his eyes on Sherlock. He wasn't going to be left behind again. Years and years ago, Sherlock had done this: accepted he was dying, died, and forced John to deal with it. And he knew that once Sherlock had decided to do something, he would do everything possible in order to succeed. Taking a deep shuddery breath, John closed his eyes, and accepted it. Sherlock was going to die.

But he wasn't going to be there to deal with it.

His coat still on, he stood and made for the door. He was considering leaving some sort of note (Sherlock had, after all, all those years ago) when a ghost of a voice made the decision for him.

"I'm not worth it, am I?"

John stared at him. "What?" he whispered.

"I'm not worth it. The pain. I know you've gone through this before. Now you're trying to outrun it."

"Yeah, well, maybe I am." He fixed his eyes on the pale shadow in the bed. "Will you allow me that, at least?"

"Allow you what?" Sherlock asked, even though he knew.

John took a deep breath. "Allow me to leave you for once."

Silence. Then, "Do you really care about me that little, John?"

John felt himself beginning to melt. "No. No, Sherlock," he whispered. "It's just... I can't let myself care anymore."

"I found out long ago that that's no way to live."

"Well, I'm sorry. I've been caring all my life, and now I can't anymore. It's going to destroy me."

"Destroy _you_? You're not the one dying." Neither of them spoke for a moment. "Go, then. Prove it."

"Prove what?"

"Prove that you don't care."

John stayed still. He was on the verge of returning to his husband's bedside. But no. He couldn't. He wasn't going to let himself be the victim anymore. He wasn't going to be the one left behind.

He made it to the door, then paused. He turned and spoke, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them, but there was no turning back now.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

He left, and Sherlock watched him go.


	5. Will it matter, after I'm gone? Because you never learned a goddamn thing

"John?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and remembered. He sighed and stared at the empty chair next to him. His abdomen clenched. No one was there to comfort him.

His arms wrapped around his torturous wounds, his head bowed, Sherlock let the tears come. He let himself feel. And he cursed himself. He cursed himself for believing, all those years ago, that he could make this work. He cursed himself letting John leave. For never showing him how much he truly did care about him. For being left behind, being the one who had so many things to say but no one to say them to.

After a couple of days, he could wake up and know that John wasn't there, without the memory consuming him like the pain did. After a couple of days, he was too weak to dwell on it, too weak even to get up to the bathroom, and he spent a large part of his time coughing up blood. After a couple of days, he knew the end was near.

After a couple of days, John returned.

Sherlock saw his silhouette in the doorway. It took him a moment to decide whether or not he was delirious, but he soon decided that John was indeed real, and it was then that he spoke.

"I'm sorry."

John's head snapped up. "What?"

"I'm sorry."

John stepped into the room. "You're not supposed to be saying that. I'm the one who left, I'm supposed to be the one apologizing, remember?" Sherlock had already apologized, all those years ago. It was John's turn now.

"I know. And I hope you will. But I am sorry."

John sank into the bedside chair, but Sherlock noticed that he refrained from taking his hand. "What on earth are you sorry for?"

"I'm sorry that you never knew I cared."

John bit his lip. "Yeah, well, I never showed you, either, did I? I've just left you in a bleeding hospital to die." His took a sharp breath. "That's why I came back. That's how I knew I couldn't stop caring. Because... because I didn't want you to die alone. Without me."

Sherlock held out his hand weakly, and John readily took it in his sturdy one. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'll be here, all right?" John whispered, holding his hand close. "I'll stay here."

"I'm sorry I never told you," Sherlock said again. John attempted to hush him, but the detective shook his head feebly and continued. "I never knew how. And before you left... I didn't think it mattered anymore. It doesn't matter that I cared about you more than I ever thought I could. It doesn't matter that you made my life worth living. Because I'm not going to be living much longer, am I? It won't matter that I _loved_ you if I won't be here to _love_ you."

"Of course it matters, Sherlock," John said, shaking with tears. "I promise. It matters more than anything."

"Don't say that, John."

"Why not?"

"I don't want it to matter more than anything. Because it's going to end. I'm going to have to leave you."

"Sherlock..." John leaned forward and kissed his husband's forehead, eyes closed against the tears. "I don't mind," he said, so quietly Sherlock could barely hear. "I don't mind the pain. You've made it worth it." He leaned close to his ear. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock smiled, tears running into the creases around his mouth. John shifted up next to him on the bed, and wrapped his arms around his thin frame. "And I did know, Sherlock. I _do_ know."

"Know what?"

John held Sherlock close to him and spoke softly. "That you love me. And you know what, Sherlock?"

"What?" he obliged, a small smile playing across his face.

"I love you, too." John lowered his head and their lips met one last time.


	6. It was the roar of the crowd that gave me heartache to sing. It was a lie when they smiled, and said you won't feel a thing.

"It looks like it's going to be today, John."  
"I know. That's what he's been saying."

Dr. Crowe gave him an odd look, but John trusted Sherlock. They had been prepared for a while now, as the patient grew steadily weaker.

"He's got his morphine drip, so it should be painless," Dr. Crowe continued. She placed her hand on John's shoulder once more. "I'm very sorry, John." He nodded, and she left again. But John didn't feel so much pain this time. They had both accepted it now. All that was left was to hold onto every precious minute he could spend with Sherlock before he had to go.

And John didn't mind being the one left behind.

As he walked into the room, Sherlock looked to him. John nodded. "Today," he confirmed. "She said the morphine should make it painless." Sherlock scoffed.

John climbed into the bed with Sherlock. This was their new default position, staying as close as they could, savoring the heat of their bodies while they were both warm.

Sherlock picked up his husband's hand and wove his fingers around his. "You're the only person I ever cared about." John stayed silent, letting him speak. "All that ever mattered was the work. It never mattered that people had died, that their loved ones were left behind. And I never tried to deal with them, the people who cared. Except for you. Because you were the only one who could deal with me. It was like you understood. And so I allowed myself to care." He sniffed back tears, denying their existence. "And that made me have to leave you the first time. I cared about you. I had to save you. And now I have to leave you again." He looked up into John's eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered once more.

"Shh." John kissed his damp cheek. "I came back. I allowed myself to care, too. Life's not worth living if you don't let people in. And someday, you're going to have to let them out again. But it's worth it, darling. Every day that I spent with you. Every hour, every second, makes it worth it." Sherlock's finger found the gold band on John's. Proof. Proof that he did care.

"I love you," he said for the first time.

"I love you, too, Sherlock."

The detective smiled and closed his eyes. That mattered more than anything.

*

It was evening, the room dark once more. They had grown accustomed to sitting in the silvery shadows. Sherlock was sleeping, and John's chair was close by his side, close enough that he could lean his head on the same pillow. But even though his eyes were closed, he would not sleep. He could feel Sherlock's light breath on his cheek. He was going to savor every moment he had left with this man.

"John?" Sherlock breathed.

John opened his eyes but didn't stir. He kept his eyes on his husband's face. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"They were wrong. When they said it would be painless. It hurts, John. It hurts so much."

"Do you need more morphine?" John asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

"No. I mean it hurts to leave. It hurts to leave you."

John held his hand tighter and snuggled closer. "It's all right, Sherlock. We've had the best time in the world, haven't we?" He grinned against the tears that were starting to fall without warning. Today. It was going to happen today. "Solving crimes and blogging about it. Living together. Quite lucky that we could each find the only other person who could stand us." The detective laughed softly. "Sherlock, I wouldn't trade any of that for the world. I wouldn't trade tonight for the world. I wouldn't trade the pain for the world. Because we made our lives matter, Sherlock. Maybe not to everyone else, but to each other. And that's worth any amount of pain."

"Yes. Yes, it is." Sherlock looked into John's eyes. "Thank you for showing me that, John."

John couldn't manage anything but a nod past the tears and the lump in his throat. Then Sherlock's grip on his hand tightened achingly, and he breathed in slowly. He leaned back into his pillow, his heartbeat slowing to a quiet pace. Gently, the last breath floated past his lips. John kept holding on, as Sherlock's eyes closed and his chest grew still. Their fingers remained woven together.

John leaned forward and brushed a few curls off his forehead before kissing it once more. "Thank you, Sherlock," he whispered tenderly, his voice faint. "For making us matter."


End file.
